


A Gift To Humanity

by Lady_Crystal



Series: 'till the End of the Line one-shot works [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Crystal/pseuds/Lady_Crystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a sort of prequel to the other one shot I wrote, but you can read them however you want, they're not completely likned. </p>
<p>I hope you enjoy! comments and kudos always make my day! </p>
<p>Lots of love!!</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Gift To Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of prequel to the other one shot I wrote, but you can read them however you want, they're not completely likned. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! comments and kudos always make my day! 
> 
> Lots of love!!

 

Fighting was good. Fighting was the reason he lived. Well, existed. Living is for people. He had never considered himself a person before that man with the shield said the weird name. He always thought he was a weapon. A very good one. A gift to mankind. That’s what they called him. Also “the weapon”. Or “the winter soldier”.

Right. Soldier. A soldier is a good thing right? He obeys his orders. No questions, no hesitation. Just obey the orders of your captain. The orders you are given. He was good at it. He had never failed. There was no pride in him though. Actually there was nothing. Why should he feel something? Weapons don’t feel... they’re not supposed to. If they do it means they’re faulty and have to be remade. Reset and redo. Unmade.

He had been remade a couple of times... well, maybe more than a couple. A lot of times actually. At the beginning he remembered being remade twice every day. He must have been really faulty. But things got better. He obviously needed to be reset sometimes. Every time he had cryo-therapy. Before and after. Sometimes even during missions.

He never complained. Why would he? It was part of his... Existence? Yes. Existence is the right word. Things exist. People live. And he was a weapon right? Yes. No doubts about that. What the man on the bridge said was an attempt to distract him.

Why would he call him Bucky? Bucky is a name. A name of a person. People have names. But he wasn’t a person. Why would he need a name? He was a weapon. And even if he had a name... It surely he couldn’t be “Bucky”. Right? Because if his name was Bucky it would mean that the blonde man knew him. And it couldn’t be possible.

He didn’t know people. Except those of his missions and they were dead. He had made sure of it. He must obviously be faulty again. The doctors would have to reset him again. At least those defects could be cured. And at a very cheap price. Yes. Some therapy would work. They would give him that rubber thing to bite so he wouldn’t break his teeth or cut his tongue. That would be a pain in the... well, mouth? They would push him back on the metallic chair and tie him up so he wouldn’t move and hurt the doctors. Then the therapy would start.

The pain was a constant part in his life. He could say he was used to it by now but it would be a lie. You never get used to that sort of pain. But it is a necessary pain right? He would scream and scream through his gritted teeth. Sometimes he would scream so much he would end up without any air in his lungs. So he would scream silently in his head. The pain would end sooner or later. And he wouldn’t be faulty anymore. It was a good thing for him. Yet there were things he needed like a human being. He needed food for example. Sleep too, even though he slept during cryotherapy, so that one was already covered. His fellow soldiers also talked about the desire of women. Some of them desired men. Some women desired women. It wasn’t his case.

He never needed someone like they did. Maybe that’s why he was better. Or it was because they were people and he wasn’t. Probably both.

But then the man on the bridge happened. He was his mission. He, the army guy, and the redhead woman. He had a vague memory about her. He had killed a man shooting straight through her. Apparently she had survived... never mind the woman though.

The tall blonde man had looked at him and called him “Bucky”. That name had rang a bell. Had meant something. But he knew no one called like that. Yet how could that name sound so familiar, so appropriate, so... right. The right name. Said by the right voice. Because that name sounded so right if said by him.

There was something wrong. Something terribly wrong going on. The tall blonde man was playing with him. Messing with him. It surely was a plan. But that name and that voice.

Bucky. He had heard it before. That voice saying that name. Saying his name? Could it be? Could it be him? He was partly human. Only his arm was metallic. The rest was human. and human beings are people.

And people are born, grow up and die... People have a family usually, friends too. They fall in love sometimes... Usually... they all did, the people around him. So if he was partly human, it meant that he must have been human once. As a kid or considering his size, as an adult. He must have had friends and family. That’s what people do don’t they?

And if he had friends and family before becoming the weapon... could it be that the man on the bridge... were they friends? No wait. Let’s not jump to conclusions. People have also enemies. The blonde man could have been an enemy too... no... that doesn’t feel right... the man on the bridge stopped attacking him as soon as he... recognized... no, as soon as he thought he recognized him. You don’t stop fighting an old enemy. And the name and the voice... so no, they knew each-other.

Well. The handsome man knew him. Did he knew the blue eyed man as well? He wanted to tell himself no, but there was something that stopped him. Maybe he did. He must have... he had to concentrate. He had to think. The images that were flashing in his head sometimes made a lot more sense under that prospective. Well that felt wrong. He was a weapon... he couldn’t. Yet he had hesitated when the man had called him Bucky.

He really hesitated and had to run. His general had slapped him when he hadn’t answered his questions. He hadn’t even notice. Well he had but had other things in his mind. Because he was certain that he knew that man on the bridge. Then his general had blabbed some explanation and something about him being a gift to mankind. He listened but that feeling in his chest was still there.

Because he knew him. And what they were saying was a lie. And he dared protesting them. Telling them that he knew him. That he knew the man on the bridge. His lips had made a weird twist. A twist that even he couldn’t tell what was supposed to mean. He heard that they had to reset him. Again. Someone protested something about the time elapsed from cryotherapy.

Nope. He was going to be remade. They pushed him backwards and he obediently opened his mouth welcoming the plastic bite. Then he was strapped on the chair and the metallic machine clutched around his head. And the pain began.

He had a mission. And that man was his mission. And then everything went wrong. It went bananas actually. He ended up being beaten by the man in the funny suit. The helicarrier was falling, crashing. About to explode certainly. Yet the man on the funny suit hadn’t killed him. He hurt his arm though. And no one had done that before. And when he was blocked under the metallic bars. Not even his arm could help him get free. He had pushed and pushed. And kept looking at the blonde man.

What was he going to do to him now? Was he going to kill him? Was he going to let him die there? Something inside him was sure that if he cried for help the man would help him. Even though wounded. But he couldn’t ask for help. Could he? No, he wasn’t going to cry for help like a weak coward.

And then the blue eyed man had done something he barely believed. Had helped him. Even though wounded and suffering he had lifted the heavy metallic bar with him and helped him get free.

Why? Why the hell was that man helping him? Why the hell did he care? Why the hell was he so important to him? He was his goddamn mission. That was scaring him. That was driving him crazy. And he acted like a wounded animal.

He jumped and attacked his saviour. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be his friend. It couldn’t be. The man was telling lies. Only lies. Liar liar liar!

He was his mission. And then the man said those words. Those words that he had no idea why meant so much for him. Why did they mean so much?

He hesitated and then, in a blink, the handsome man was falling. And he was watching him drown. And it bothered him. The drowning man was important. He was feeling the impulse to save him. It mattered to him. Why did he feel the urge to save him, the need to save him? Why was it so important?

He jumped after him and pulled him out. Yes it was to even his debt. His life for his life. Surely. There was no other explanation. Right? No. It was a lie.

The truth is that he needed to save that man. Because the idea of the tall handsome man lying dead was creating a sense of failure in his chest. As if it was his instinticve, primordial mission to keep him safe. And he knew he couldn’t let the blonde man die. He pulled him out of the water and dragged him on land despite the pain in the other arm. Then, for a long second looked at him before leaving.

He had things to do.


End file.
